


this is me trying

by etherealkis



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 02:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30116019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealkis/pseuds/etherealkis
Summary: “they told me all of my cages were mental”follows jean’s journey to recovery with the trojans.
Relationships: Alvarez/Laila Dermott, Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	this is me trying

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome <33 this fic is just something i wrote for fun and will update sporadically. the title is from taylor swift’s ‘this is me trying’. i will live and die on the hill that that is jean’s anthem.
> 
> any trigger warnings will be at the beginning of each chapter because, come on, jean is just a minefield of those. please feel free to yell at me in the comments if i miss any.
> 
> tw - panic attack (forgive me, i’ve never had a panic attack, so this may be a completely inaccurate portrayal)

Jean watched Jeremy carefully as they pulled up to a nondescript, red-brick building on campus. The other boy had remained silent for most of the drive, seemingly respecting Jean’s want for silence after his first few rebuffed attempts at conversation. Now, though, he parked the car and announced, “We’re here.” 

Jeremy hopped out of the car, making his way to the trunk to grab Jean’s lone duffel bag. Jean froze. He knew there was nothing incriminating in the bag, just clothes, but he didn’t know the rules yet. Jeremy was being entirely cryptic on that front. Maybe this was a special kind of torture, he mused. A fun game for his new masters. Let him stumble until he eventually stepped out of line, then punish him as a reminder for the rest of his teammates to obey. It wouldn’t be the first time something so cruel was introduced to him. After all, Jean was property, his body and mind not his own. His fellow Ravens hadn’t hesitated to remind him of that.

Jeremy, however, seemed to pick up on Jean’s panic, silently studying his face before sliding the bag off his shoulder and offering it to him. Jean took it, clutching it between numb fingers, nodding once in appreciation once he had.

He got a bright smile in return. 

They walked up the stairs together. Jeremy, chattering relentlessly. Jean, a silent force trailing behind him. Words seemed to spill from Jeremy's mouth now that he had been acknowledged by his companion. He talked about everything from his favorite coffee shop, a small eclectic hole in the wall, to how the other Trojans were due to arrive over the next week. Not discouraged by the one-sided conversation, he only ceased speaking once they reached their destination, a wooden door on the eighth floor sporting a handmade welcome sign.

Jean stood still as Jeremy fished a lanyard out of his pocket. “Ta-da,” he exclaimed once he unlocked the door, flinging it open and gesturing empathetically at the room beyond. It was nice, Jean observed as he stepped inside. More spacious than what he had shared with Kevin back in the Nest. The brightly lit room consisted of a sitting area, kitchen, and a shallow hallway with two doors which he assumed were the bedroom and bathroom. As if Jeremy could read his thoughts, he spoke up. “I know. It’s nice, isn’t it? Perks of being captain,” he grinned. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can put your stuff down.”

He led the way down the hall, opening the door on their left. “I hope you don’t mind that I already chose a side. If you prefer to not be by the window, we can switch or move your bed or something,” he offered sincerely.

“It’s fine,” Jean said quickly, setting his bag down on the bare mattress, not wanting Jeremy to see how important the window was and take it away. That’s what Riko would’ve done. There was barely any sunshine in the Nest with every corner shrouded in black paint and shadows. Jean was lucky if he saw the sun once a year, and once Riko had caught onto his love for it, he was blessed if he ever saw it at all outside of away games and banquets. Jean didn’t trust Jeremy and his little kindness and smiles act. He could not be this nice, no matter what any of the Foxes said to the contrary. This was not a good thing, it just couldn’t be. He had been taught since adolescence that good things did not happen to Jean Moreau. 

Fortunately, Jeremy didn’t seem to notice. “Perfect,” he said, smiling at him. “Do you want to go to the store? I’m assuming you need pillows and sheets amongst other toiletries.”

Jean nodded.

“Ok,” Jeremy prompted. “Is Target okay?” 

Jean stared at him blankly. He had never heard of this Target. 

Jeremy winced. “Sorry, I forgot-”

“No,” Jean cut off, not wanting to hear his apology. In his experience, sorry never did any good. Sorry couldn’t heal a knife wound or fractured ribs.

“Okay,” said Jeremy cautiously, grabbing his keys. “Let’s go to Target.”

They drove to the store, and Jean wanted to shrink with every look cast their way. He felt like the 3 inked on his cheek was a beacon or magnet, drawing people’s stares to him. Was the store always so busy? Apparently, Sunday was a prime time for normal people to go shopping. He was unaccustomed to being around so many strangers, each noise foreign and startling. Unwilling to be lost in the growing crowd, he followed Jeremy down the aisles, letting him throw whatever in their cart, answering each inquiry with a nod or slight tilt of his head when presented with a choice. His only real request was no black. 

“Of course,” Jeremy had said, taking his words in stride and picking out an assortment of light blue and yellow items. 

As time progressed and their cart quickly filled, Jean got more uneasy. Every sudden movement, slam of a fridge door, or wailing child grated on his nerves like sandpaper. He was too weak. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t do this.

“Hey! You’re number three, aren’t you?”

Jean flinched out of his reverie, eyes darting around wildly at the unexpected call-out before landing on a little boy.

“It is you! Number three!” he squealed excitedly once he caught sight of Jean’s tattooed face.

He felt the familiar panic well up in him at that god damn nickname. Number three, number three, number three. This can’t be happening. Not now, he pleaded internally as he squeezed his eyes shut to somehow soften the sure blow of the boy’s next words.

“You must be so sad about Riko’s death,” he said sympathetically. “He was so talented, poor Riko.”

Poor Riko, Jean almost choked. The boy didn’t seem to notice though, continuing his onslaught of questions.

“Why’d you leave the Ravens? Are you not good enough anymore? Are you trying to copy Kevin Day? How’d you choose the Trojans? Are you and Kevin still friends? I still think you’d be better in the Nest.”

By now, Jeremy had noticed that Jean was no longer behind him. He turned, assessing the situation immediately, eyes wide with concern. He was concerned for Jean. Even half-hysterical and fighting back less than pleasant memories, he could see the irony in that. Nobody had shown Jean concern in ages, not even his maman who shut him up with harsh words whenever he dared to cry. 

Dazedly, Jean registered sliding down to the ground, curling himself into a tight ball, and rocking back and forth. He felt like he was stuck underwater. He had drowned before, not really, but close enough. When they were 14, Riko had caught a glimpse of waterboarding on television and thought it looked amusing. He remembered rough hands holding him down, a wet cloth pressed over his nose, and having no choice but to breathe it in. He remembered the sensation. He felt it again now. The world around him was distorted. He could blurrily make out Jeremy sending the kid away, Jeremy kneeling in front of him, hands hovering over his shoulders but not touching. He could faintly hear him calling, “Jean, Jean.” 

If only the past would release its hold long enough for him to come up for air.

“Jean, écoute moi.” Jeremy’s French cut through the haze in Jean’s mind, and he greedily latched onto the comforting language like a life raft.

Jeremy continued in the same soothing tone. “Riko est mort. Cous êtes en Californie maintenant. J'ai besoin de toi pour respirer. Respire avec moi, Jean.”

Jean tried desperately to inhale, but he couldn’t. He could hear Jeremy speaking more urgently now. 

“Allez, respire. Inspirez, maintenez-le pendant cinq secondes. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq. Maintenant expirez. De nouveau.”

Jean tried to match his breaths to Jeremy’s words. Struggling, he inhaled shakily, holding it till Jeremy reached five, then let it out. Again and again, he did this until his breathing had regulated and his mind calmed. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasped out.

“No worries.” Jeremy smiled, dropping his hands from Jean’s shoulders. “It happens, it’s not your fault.”

Jean didn’t believe him, but he let it go in favor of asking a faint, “How?”

Jeremy seemed to get what he meant though, humming in acknowledgement before replying, “My sister, she gets panic attacks as well. Especially in loud places. We just sit together and breathe when she does.”

Jean nodded, turning Jeremy’s easy answer over in his head. Is this how normal people behaved? Just offering information about them and their lives left and right? “And the French?” he questioned. 

“I’m from Montreal, we speak French at home.” Jean must have looked incredulous because he let out a laugh and added, “What? You didn’t think I was typical California surfer boy, did you?”

Jean forced out a weak chuckle. “Of course not,” he murmured. 

“But on a serious note, if it helps, we can speak French. Just let me know, I want you to be comfortable here.”

Comfortable, Jean turned this new word over in his head. He couldn’t remember ever experiencing comfort. It was foreign. New. He nodded in agreement anyways.

Jeremy extended a hand. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s check out and get out of here.”

Jean took it.

**Author's Note:**

> maybe it’s time to mention that the only french i speak is from the first 5 duolingo lessons. all of the phrases i include in the fic are directly from google translate. i know, it’s probably not the most accurate, and all native french speakers are probably having a fit right now. sorry sorry. for anyone that also doesn’t speak french, the mini conversation just goes:
> 
> Jean, look at me. Riko is dead. You’re in California now. I need you to breathe. Breathe with me, Jean.
> 
> Then he counts and tells Jean when to inhale and exhale.
> 
> if i use french again, the translation will always be in the end notes. 
> 
> hits, kudos, comments, and feedback are always welcome! i really need to remind myself to slow down and deliver a proper slowburn because i’m so impatient.


End file.
